The glint in his eye,
makes me wish I was a bass guitar.
To feel his fingers play my strings,
so I would sing just how he likes me to
would be something of a dream come true.
The glint on his lip,
begs my own to taste his,
to follow the path of metal
piercing his skin,
lapping at the delicate destruction
that would make me his.
The color on his arms
calls my fingers to trace
the edge of the patterns
so I would know how far,
and how low, they go.
To be the metal in his skin,
to be the clothes he wears,
to color his pigment as my own,
would be rapturous indeed.